


Beginning At The End

by Naughty_Yorick



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: But this is GOT, Confessions, F/M, Major character death - Freeform, S8 E3 spoilers, Season 8, So..., love n stuff, more tags TBC, post s8e2, pre-battle talk, rated teen cos swears
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-10 12:14:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18660235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naughty_Yorick/pseuds/Naughty_Yorick
Summary: “Brienne. I need to talk to you.”She stopped, frowning, as men went around them. “Is this the best time?”“This might be the only time, Brienne. Ser.”Faced with the promise of death, Jaime only has one thing on his mind: he needs to find Brienne before it's too late.





	1. Chapter 1

Men rushed past like water. Tyrion had run off to find the Dragon Queen, the wildling and Davos headed towards Lord Snow's battalion. Jaime found himself in the Winterfell courtyard, suddenly lost in the throng.

Brienne. He needed to find Brienne. 

He let the river of men drag him through the gates then leaped sideways to press himself against the wall where he could get a better vantage point across the land. She wasn't yet on the front line: that meant she'd be coming this way. All he needed to do was find her.

Jaime waited.

He spotted Pod first, carrying a shield and scurrying ahead. Then she appeared - even amongst the Northern soldiers she was tall, her yellow hair shining in the moonlight.

He jumped forward and grabbed her arm. “Brienne. I need to talk to you.”

She stopped, frowning, as men went around them. “Is this the best time?”

“This might be the _only time_ , Brienne. Ser.”

She blushed; even in the darkness he could tell she was blushing. It was a miracle the snow didn't melt at her feet.

“Jaime, I really think-”

He tried not to swear at her. “We don't have time!”

“My point exactly.”

“Brienne, I need to...we need to _talk_ , please, _now_. Before we all die.”

She hesitated, peered at his desperate face, and softened.

“Fine.” She nodded at Pod, who continued onwards, then ducked away from the group and let Jaime pull her towards the castle, “What is it?”

He nervously eyed the soldiers marching past, wondered if they could hear them, wondered if this really was, in fact, a great idea...and then from above that horrible bell began to ring again. He swallowed. This really was it. 

“Brienne, I...When I told you why I came to Winterfell. I lied.”

She didn't respond, just stared at him with those dreadful, beautiful eyes.

“I said I wanted to fight with you. Under you. That I wanted you to lead me. And I do!” He added hurriedly, spotting a frown forming, “That part...that wasn't a lie. But it wasn't why I came here.”

He looked down at the grey snow beneath his feet. His heart was thumping in his chest, he felt like he might be sick. Facing the Night King and his army of white walkers alone and unarmed would be preferable to this torture.

“Brienne, I…” Oh, Gods. It was just words, just _words_! _Words are wind_ , Cersei had always reminded him, but these words felt like rock, like iron. A false promise could blow away with the breeze but _this_ would topple cities, crush buildings. 

Brienne was looking at him impatiently as he floundered.

“Jaime, wh-”

“I love you!”

They spoke simultaneously. Brienne’s words died at her lips. She looked briefly shocked, like the breath had been taken out of her, then her eyebrows knitted together. She looked distrustful, almost hurt, like he'd said something awful.

“Jaime, you don't…” She started, quietly, but he cut her off.

“I do! Brienne, I should have found you and told you the moment I set foot through the gates of Winterfell. I _lo_ -”

“You can't! You don't. I'm too...I'm not…”

Her face contorted as she tried to reign her emotions back. She looked pained, betrayed.

“Did I insult you, Ser?”

Tears glistened in her eyes. “No! I…”

“Or caused you offence? I didn't mean-”

“ _Offence_? Jaime, you…” she shook her head at him, searching for the right words.

“...you don't believe me.”

Silence fell, apart from the gentle sound of snow falling around their shoulders. She furiously blinked back tears.

He took a step forward. “If I had a hundred days, Brienne, I would convince you. I'd make you see how I feel. I'd...I'd plant you gardens of roses and serenade you with badly written poems and buy you fine silks…” he spotted her expression, and corrected himself: “Fine, I'd buy you an armoury and a good horse and a _proper_ sword, a sword for Tarth, with sapphires in the hilt. But Brienne, I don't have a hundred days. If I could, I'd court you and woo you like a lady...like a _knight_ deserves.” He looked out towards the smudge on the horizon where the army of the dead were approaching. “But I've only got now, _right now_. Not even a whole night. Just...now.”

He stepped back, desperate not to make her feel like he was pinning her in, and felt the icy crunch of snow beneath his feet. She looked as though she was in shock, far too honest and innocent to try to mask her feelings behind stoicism.

“This...this isn't _funny_.” She stammered out, as pain and anger played across her face, “You can't…”

“I can. I _do_. Brienne; look. You can laugh at me. You can reject me. You can tell me to...to throw myself at the dead, and by Gods I probably would. But don’t tell me I’m lying.”

She carried on shaking her head wordlessly, eyes sparkling.

“It’s _not_ funny. You’re right. It hurts. And you can stop shaking your head at me…” he reached out and grabbed her arm, and she finally looked at him, “I love you, you stupid wench.”

Something inside her snapped. The old, casual insult broke through and, suddenly, she was smiling.

“What happened to _Ser_?” She asked, breathlessly.

“ _Ser_ Wench, then.” 

He let go of her arm, half expecting her to walk away; but she took a step forwards, towards him, still smiling: a _real_ smile, like the one she had treated him to in the Winterfell hall barely an hour ago. Somewhere behind them - it could have been miles away, for all he cared - he could hear the sound of men readying themselves for battle.

And then he was laughing. He’d been pushed from his family, fled to the frozen fucking wastes of the North; a one-handed disgraced knight ready to face what was, surely, his doom, and had finally shrugged away years of denial to tell his wench - his knight - that he loved her. It was madness, all of it: pure madness.

“Jaime!” Brienne hissed at him, looking at the men over his shoulder, “What are you…”

“I love you!” And then he was yelling, as Brienne’s eyes widened in sheer panic, “ _I love you_! I, Jaime Lannister, am very much in love with Ser Brie-”

And suddenly he found his words muffled by her lips, thrust clumsily against his. It only lasted a moment, and when she pulled away she looked more shocked than he did.

“Shh!” She commanded him, trying her best to look serious and only making him giggle more, “Jaime!”

“What?”

“The others!”

He turned to look over his shoulder, half expecting to see Tyrion or even Pod staring back at him, but was met only with the backs of retreating Northern soldiers.

“What _others_?”

“What would people...what would they say? If they heard you…”

“ _You_ were the one kissing _me_.”

“So you’d keep your mouth shut!”

He adopted a feigned expression of hurt. “Was that all that was for you, Brienne? A way to keep me quiet? You should have tried that _years_ ago.”

She opened her mouth to throw a retort back at him, but couldn't seem to manage it. Her face, a mess of pink splotches, almost glowed in the dark.

“We shouldn’t…” She started.

“Actually, Brienne... _Ser_ Brienne,” He corrected himself, “I think we should. Because before the sun rises above this castle we might both be dead. We have, oh…” He scanned the horizon, “Maybe seven or eight hours to enjoy being in love. I intend to make the most of it.”

He peered at her blushing, scowling face and a thought crossed his mind, slowly and terribly, like ice.

“That is to say: you _do_ feel the same way, Brienne?”

She rolled her eyes, “Jaime…” she began, dismissively.

“Do you?” 

She chewed on her bottom lip as her eyes darted around, looking everywhere but at him.

“Jaime, I…” She sighed, “I don't…” She saw real, actual pain on his face and quickly added, “No! I Mean...this...I’m not good with words, like you. Or cleverness. I…”

She scowled as she tried to put her feelings into words.

“Brienne, you don't need to be diplomatic. Just...yes or no.”

She looked up at him with a sigh, still chewing on her lip, tangling herself in knots.

He was ready to admit defeat, ready to turn away and die for her in the field, ready for her to say no. 

“Do I...isn’t it obvious?” 

“Humour me.”

“I…” She forced herself look him in the eye, “Of _course_ I do, Jaime.”

“You do?” He couldn't hide the relief in his voice.

“Obviously I...I do. Yes. But I always thought yo-”

And then her words were cut short as Jaime leant forwards and kissed her. It wasn't an inexpert, fumbling kiss like hers had been, but soft and gentle and well-practised. It was a kiss that felt like the end of the world. The snow, the castle, the soldiers were gone; leaving just them. His head spun.

When he pulled away, Brienne stood, blinking and stunned. He wanted to say something: compliment her on her lips, or thank her for impossibly loving him, but before he got the chance there was a call from above.

“Fine timing, brother!”

They both looked up to see Tyrion leaning from the walkway of the stone wall that loomed above them. Brienne immediately flushed and looked away, but Jaime laughed up at him.

“Didn't you hear?” He called up, “It’s the end of the world! What better time is there to tell a woman you love her?”

Tyrion rolled his eyes. “Come back in one piece, if you can. Both of you! By the time this war is over I want a niece or nephew I can be proud of!” 

Brienne flushed even redder, apparently fascinated by the snow kicked up around her feet. Jaime waved a dismissive hand Tyrion.

“In that case, you ought to survive too. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a war to fight!”

Tyrion continued along the walkway, and Jaime peered sidelong at Brienne.

“Jaime, I…”

From somewhere above, the warning bell tolled three times - men began to shout. Far away, a trumpet sounded.

“I think we’re needed.” 

They strode towards the front line in silence, through the waiting men, each stealing glances at the other. Brienne positioned herself at the front of the flank beside Pod, who looked at her with raised eyebrows but only said - “Ser.” - with a half-smile and a nod.

Jaime watched the mark on the horizon growing larger. He flexed his hand, hoping that the cold didn't rob him of that one, too. The threat, no: the _promise_ of death stared back at him. _Let me die_ , he thought, somewhere between a hope and a prayer, _Let me die if it means she can be saved_. 

It was too much.

“Brienne-”

“Jaime-”

They had spoken at the same time. They stared at each other, snow clouding their vision.

“Brienne. I…” He couldn't find the words. There wasn't enough time to tell her everything he needed to say. There would _never_ be enough time. “Don't go and get yourself killed.” 

“Nor you, Ser.” She replied, “We...have a lot left to discuss. Try not to die.”

He smiled at her. Perhaps, right now, that would be enough.

The frozen winds whipped at his face, and he drew his sword.


	2. Chapter 2

Fire, and blood.

The sky was red, full of dust and snow and fog. The earth beneath their feet was bleeding.

However fast they slew the dead, they kept coming, like a flood. Brienne found herself pressed against a wall, Jaime and Pod at her side, piles of corpses in front. It was a poor position, a _dangerous_ position, but there was nowhere else to go.

Around the courtyard she could see the growing casualties, and the survivors struggling against the horde. She watched as the tiny Lady Mormont thrust a dagger into the eye of an undead giant, stared in horror as a half-destroyed dragon, dripping with blue flame, collapsed into one of the walls. 

She watched Jaime from the corner of her eye. Fighting with him felt fluid, felt easy. When they had been atop the battlements, it was like she knew where he would be before he was even there. It was like a _dance_. Every so often, she would hear him cry out - how she recognised his voice amongst the yells she had no idea - and she would strike forwards and cut down whichever beast was attacking him.

He did the same for her, too - countless times she had been trapped with a wight just inches from her face for it to suddenly drop and reveal Ser Jaime spinning away behind it.

They were alive. It was all she had, all that she could focus on. Tactics had been forgotten; there was only defense, mindlessly slashing at the wall of bodies in front of her. They couldn’t _win_. She knew they couldn't win, knew that the living was no match for these marching, relentless creatures. But she fought anyway. She had to.

And then corpses began to reanimate at her feet.

She pressed herself against the wall in revulsion as the wights’ eyes snapped open, glowing that horrible, icy blue, and then began to rise. She shared a long, dreadful look with Jaime. 

They were overwhelmed. The ranks of the dead had nearly doubled and bore down upon them. As she slashed at them, she felt something grab onto her neck, but the ones in front were scrabbling at her too. Something sharp dug into her skin, and she tried to shake it off while the wights ahead of her grabbed at her arms.

“No!” 

She span as she heard his voice, and watched him pull the thing from her back and slash at it with his sword just as three more lept at them. He vanished, suddenly, under the pile of living corpses, and with a guttural yell she jumped forwards, tried to break through them, but they were too close, too many, too-

There was a breeze. A sound like a breath taken before a leap.

And the wights began to fall. 

All around them, the bodies collapsed - dead; really, truly dead.

Brienne grabbed her chance and pulled at the now lifeless creatures that had attacked Jaime, hurling them away. She found him - miraculously, somehow standing, sword dropped to the floor. He took a ragged breath, then slumped back against the wall.

“Jaime!”

She grabbed him as he began to sink down, and gently lowered him to the ground, holding him in her arms. Her hand felt something warm on his side. She peeled her fingers away. Blood.

He took another shallow breath as she cradled him.

“Last time you held me like this,” he murmured, with a wince, “You were calling me Kingslayer.”

“Shh, Jaime...We need to get you help…”

“Mmm...” He licked his dry, cracked lips, his eyelids drooping.

“No, no; Jaime, stay awake! Stay with me…”

“Why would I want to go anywhere else, Lady Knight?”

Beside her, Pod was talking, frantic and panicked, but she couldn't hear him. He leapt away, over the bodies, but she barely noticed.

“You need to stay awake. It's just a wound, you just need a maester…”

With effort, he managed to fully open his eyes. He stared at her.

“It's you…”

“It's me, Jaime, I'm here.”

“Good. That's...good.”

He blinked, slowly, gave a short, pained chuckle, then muttered something she couldn't quite hear. She lowered her head towards his.

“Jaime, what is it?”

He merely laughed again, his breathing laboured and raspy, his body drooping in her arms. 

“Jaime…” it was barely a whisper. “Please.”

“In your arms, Brienne. In the arms of...the arms of the woman I…”

He trailed off. 

“Jaime?... _Jaime?_ ”

And silence fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry.


	3. Chapter 3

“The bodies have to be burnt.”

No one was quite sure who said it. 

There were so many dead - hundreds of their own soldiers and thousands from the Night King’s army - it was impossible to do things _properly_.

They found the bodies of ones they knew, ones who had been close. Theon had been brought back to the castle first. Samwell spent several hours searching for Edd, and brought him back himself. The few men left from Bear Island carried their tiny, broken Lady to the great hall and laid her next to her cousin. The Hound appeared with Dondarrion slung over his shoulder. 

Daenerys was trying to be reasonable. They didn’t have the resources - nor the men - to provide a funeral for everyone who was lost. Even Brienne could see she didn’t truly believe it, the way her eyes kept darting back to Jorah where he lay on the floor. 

But Brienne was through with being reasonable. She strode forwards, staring down all the Lords and Ladies as if challenging them.

“We cannot let our men - our _best_ men - be tossed aside. We should be out there building pyres, not....not planning the next attack! They died fighting for _us_ , fighting so we could survive.”

“And they died nobly and their sacrifice is appreciated.” Said the Queen, her face stony and unreadable. 

Brienne shook her head. “This isn’t _right_.”

“No. This is _war_.”

Brienne turned away from her, fury rising. She caught Lady Sansa’s eye . Her eyes were red and swollen - unlike Daenerys, she couldn’t hide her own grief. The Lady of Winterfell gave her a nod - all the permission she needed - and Brienne stormed from the room, muttering.

“Then I’ll build one my _damn_ self, if I have to.”

As it would happen, she didn’t have to. Pod, ever-loyal, found her in the snowy grounds outside the castle with a bundle of kindling on his back. He didn’t say anything, didn’t _need_ to say anything. It was just enough that he was there.

Tyrion arrived shortly after, and watched her building for a moment before approaching.

“He was right; you really _are_ abnormally stubborn. I can see why he liked you.”

Brienne turned, a bundle of sticks in her arms.

“That was not meant as an insult, Ser!” Tyrion quickly added, raising his hands in surrender. “Not many people would talk to the Queen like that. Even fewer would disobey her.”

Brienne carried on building. “There’s nothing to disobey. She didn’t _forbid_ us from doing anything.”

Tyrion raised his eyebrows. “Quite right you are. You seemed to have started a trend.”

Brienne stopped working. “What?”

“Others have started gathering wood, laying out resting places. That Tarly boy was first, and then Lord Snow realised what he was doing…”

“...and?”

“...And he somehow managed to convince the Queen to, I think the exact quote was, _let you all get on with it_. I believe he’s gathering kindling in the woods as we speak. Well done. He’d have been proud of you.”

Brienne felt her heart beat out of time for a moment, and Tyrion stepped forwards.

“The duties of the Hand can wait,” he said, “this is family.” 

He came and went, bringing sticks, kindling, string and rope and hay from the stables, building and carrying for as long as he could before his attention was once again demanded by the Queen.

Nearring midday, Sandor Clegane had appeared, his arms full of wood. He nodded at her, tersely, before moving on to the next pyre. 

Tormund - the giant, ginger wildling who had taken to following her around - had approached next. She was prepared to shout at him, to tell him to fuck off, but he was oddly subdued.

“He was a good fighter, Ser. For a southerner.”

She had rolled her eyes at him, but she could tell there was no malice there.

“I hope he sleeps peacefully.” Tormund said, before moving away to the wildlings at the edge of the woods.

Even Lady Sansa swept towards her, her eyes still red. Brienne had seen her coming and going further down the way; she and her sister, occasionally helped by Jon, had been building their own pyre for Theon. 

Brienne had bowed to her Lady, who, suddenly, had pulled her into an embrace. “I’m so sorry.” Sansa had muttered to her, before quickly composing herself and vanishing back towards the castle.

She was even more surprised when the Dragon Queen approached, dressed in her fine white furs. 

Brienne immediately stopped what she was doing, stepping forwards.

“Your Grace. I...If I might apologise for…”

Daenerys raised a single, gloved hand, and Brienne fell silent. 

“No need, my Lady.” Brienne bit back the urge to correct her - _I’m Ser, now_. “I...may have made a hasty decision.”

“You were doing what you thought was best, your Grace.”

“And by doing so ignored what those who look to me wanted. What _I_ wanted. You really are extraordinarily brave, Brienne.”

Brienne shook her head. “Not always.”

Daenerys took a few more steps forward to look at the pyre, a faraway expression in her face.

“He killed my father.”

“I know, your Grace.”

She felt the warm water of the Harrenhall baths lapping at her memory. The stinging pinkness of her cheeks, the smell of acrid soap and rotting flesh.

“I suppose everyone knows the deeds of The Kingslayer.” Daenerys continued.

“His name is Jaime.” It slipped out before she could stop it, feeling the blood drain from her face.

The Dragon Queen raised a single, perfect eyebrow at her. Brienne had heard the stories of what happened outside Highgarden; What had happened to the Tarlys. She had a sudden vision of being engulfed in dragon fire for her continued insolence.

“Lady Sansa urged me to let him stay, in private. She trusted him. I suppose, more accurately, she trusts _you_.”

“Your Grace?”

“I have heard many stories of the madness of my father. Warnings. People do not like to forget who you are, or where you come from.”

“No, your Grace.”

She sighed. Brienne was suddenly very aware of how small she was - how delicate.

“He stopped the needless deaths of a lot of people. What he did was right, but not _good_.”

Brienne hesitated, then said “I think that’s often the case, Your Grace.” 

Daenerys nodded, solemnly. “He killed my father. There are some acts, no matter how right, that cannot be forgiven. But...I believe he _was_ a good man, at the end.” She turned to Brienne. “I am sorry for your loss, Brienne.”

And then she was gone. Brienne blinked back tears as she watched the fierce, tiny woman walk away. 

It was ready after a few hours. Assisted by Pod and a few others, she removed Jaime’s body from the great hall with the others and placed it upon the pyre.

They removed the golden hand. That had been Tyrion's decision: the hand had never really been Jamie's choice - it reeked of their father, their sister.

She watched as Tyrion unbuckled the straps. She didn’t know what to do. So she prayed.

Brienne rarely bothered with the Gods. She swore on the old gods and the new, as a knight should, but her devotion seldom went beyond that. 

She prayed to the Old Gods, to the Seven. She prayed to the Many Faced God of Death, the Lord of Light, the Drowned God. She prayed to every small god she could remember from her lessons as a girl.

She didn't know the right words but hoped that, if they really were listening, the Gods wouldn't judge her too poorly. Perhaps they weren't as harsh as men and would weigh her worth based on her intentions, not her fumbling words. 

Around her, She could see other pyres nearing completion, some even burning. She could see the unmistakable shape of Samwell staring into the flames of one of them, Jon stood beside him.

She felt lost, out in the snow, the wind whistling over the ramparts of the castle. Even with Pod and Tyrion beside her, she felt very suddenly alone. 

Automatically, she put her hand to her belt to rest it on Oathkeeper. The familiar shape of the lion's head was reassuring, a brief comfort - but useless, here. Some battles could not be won with swords.

She gripped the hilt and then, very suddenly, realised what she needed to do.

By the time Tyrion had removed the hand, she was already undoing the clasps that held her belt in place and pulling the sword off. She held it in the sheath and approached the pyre.

Tyrion shouted behind her. “Are you mad? That’s Valyrian steel!”

“It _is_ Valyrian steel. Which means a funeral pyre won’t even singe it. The hilt and pommel, perhaps...but that’s easily fixed. It’s _his_. It’s always been his.”

She knew she was being unreasonable, and illogical. The sword he’d been fighting with was Widow’s Wail - and it was a good sword, but it wasn’t _his_. For more than one person in Winterfell, Widow’s Wail felt like a bad omen, like a curse; it carried with it too many memories of the boy-king it was forged for. 

He’d used it to kill the wight that had her by the throat, the steel slicing through it like smoke. But it had been too late. When the creatures had collapsed, blood was already seeping from Jaime’s armour and mingling with the mud at his feet.

She ignored Tyrion, and unsheathed Oathkeeper. It was still stained with blood - there hadn't been time to polish it - the dark patches breaking up the shimmery steel. Gently, she placed the sword on his chest. They’d laid him with his arms crossed, and she gingerly lifted his hand and placed it over the hilt, swallowing back the cry that was threatening to escape her throat. 

She moved around to the front of the pyre, to better look at his face. He looked like he could be sleeping...although she'd never seen him sleep that peacefully. As if following some buried instinct, she brushed aside his hair with her fingers, neatening it. 

It felt like there was a rock in her chest, trying to drag her down. Like something inside her had turned to stone and nested there. The unbearable, consuming heaviness ached, like a wound, like a bruise. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears, as if from far away, like the sea beating upon rocks. Her breath felt thick, made her feel like she was drowning.

She tried to breathe in the cooling, swirling air but the rush made her feel dizzy. She sighed, then bowed her head towards his. She bit at her chapped, red lips and then, finally, placed a gentle kiss on his forehead. 

She couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. They spilled, silently, down her cheeks and pooled on his greying skin. There were no sobs, no crying out - just pain. With her lips still pressed against him, she whispered through her tears: “ _I love you_.”

The snow swirled around her, ruffling her hair, and she stood back. Tyrion approached, a torch in his hand. Silently, he lit the pyre.

Flames flickered across the wooden structure, leaping and dancing between the little piles of dry kindling. It quickly spread, steam rising from the wood like clouds and the flames encircling Jaime’s body. She couldn’t look away, even though every inch of her wanted to run, wanted to hide away somewhere where she could pretend this had never happened. Silent tears still ran down her face, and her final words to him danced through her head, screaming at her. 

And then the sound was sucked out of the world.

She thought, for a moment, that she was going to faint - that her mind had simply given up - but she looked towards Tyrion and Pod, who were looking equally confused.

“Brienne…?”

“I…Lord Tyrion?”

The trees were still. The wind that had been pounding winterfell for weeks had fallen away. The snowflakes dropped from the air like stones - the only thing still moving were the flames, the trembling flames - but the pop and crackle of the fire was gone.

And then a sound - a sound that seemed to be everywhere - the sound of metal, of a drawn sword, the sound of a threat of a fight.

The flames exploded into a fireball. Something was launched from the pyre, high into the air and then - 

Oathkeeper embedded itself, point first, in the ground at her feet. Pod and Tyrion jumped back, but she didn't even flinch.

Unthinkingly, she reached out to touch it. She barely heard Pod's warning shout as her hand grasped the sword. 

“It's cold...” she said, pulling the blade from the ground with a heave.

She lifted the sword and the blade glittered, the colours moving up and down the steel like oil on water. 

The pyre went out, the flames not guttering or fading but folding back into the wood, only scorch marks left behind.

And Jaime threw himself forwards with a gasp.


	4. Chapter 4

He wasn't surrounded by darkness. Darkness only meant the absence of light, it was a _nothing_ that could only exist if there was a _something,_ too.

This was _real_ nothing. It went on forever, if forever existed here.

And then there was a woman’s scream.

Jaime opened his eyes and found himself stood in King's Landing. Or, at least, the remains of King's Landing.

The buildings were all but gone. Ash lay piled where houses, septs and keeps had once stood. Here and there were piles of rubble or stone. Had it not been for the cliffs and the pounding, swirling sea away to his right he would have never been able to recognise the city.

Pathways, free of dust or debris, snaked through the carnage. He recognised them: they mapped the roads and streets of what once had been a thriving city.

He bent down to examine the rubble. The ash was soft and slightly warm, and rose, swirling into the air as he brushed it away. Beneath, there was a skull. 

Jaime recoiled and tumbled back, slamming into what once must have been a stone pillar, dislodging it. It toppled in a cloud of dust, and he kept up to his feet, coughing and trying to wave it away.

As it cleared, he could see what the ash had been covering. Skeletons. Hundreds of them, the bones blackened. He stepped back and stared out across the ruined city, realising with horror what he was seeing.

He ran. 

Ash rained down from the dark, swirling sky. Thick, grey-green clouds obscured the sun, throwing the city into shadow.

He made his way along the pathways, not sure what he was looking for, or where he was going. Everywhere he turned, empty skulls stared up at him. 

There was a noise. He stopped, frozen in place, trying to place the sound.

A cry. Not a scream, but the desperate and pained cry of a child.

There was someone out there, buried beneath the ash and dust and rubble, beneath the piles of bodies. 

He strained, then heard it again, coming from a heap several feet away to his left. He rushed towards it and plunged his hands into the ash, only to suddenly hear the cry again, now to his side. He rubbed his ashy hands on his legs and headed that way, towards a heap of charred stone.

And then it was coming from behind him.

He followed the cry across the city, occasionally sweeping dust aside or lifting rubble to find the weeping child: but it was never there.

It led him to a ruin, larger than the others, within which stood several toppled pillars. The ash lay thicker here, the pathway buried, and it brushed around his feet like warm snow. It wasn't until he reached the twisted, misshapen lump of metal at the end of the structure that he realised where he was.

_The Iron Throne_. Destroyed: melted down till the swords had mingled with each other until they were nothing more than a heap of steel. What could have done this?

The image of the huge, blood-red dragon flashed across his mind. But even that, surely, couldn't have done _this_.

He placed a hand on the steel. It was cold - far too cold. His hand left a neat, shimmering mark upon it.

The cry rang out again, and made him jump. It was somewhere outside, beyond the ruin of the throne room. He turned to leave, ripping his eyes away from the throne, when his foot connected with something lying on the ground.

Cersei. He knew it was her, even though the skeleton was as black and charred and fleshless as the others. Her silver crown was fused to her skull. 

He looked down at her, frozen in shock.

She was holding something, keeping it close to her chest. He bent forward, resisting the urge to run away, and gently blew away some of the ash.

The White Book. Jaime was suddenly overcome: he needed to read it, needed to see it. It called to him, like a thrall. He grabbed the edges of the book and tugged. The skeletal remains of his sister shuddered. He tugged again, and he felt the book move. With a pull, he extracted it from her arms.

As he did, the bones crumbled. Her arms and hands dissolved into the same, fine ash that coated the spent city. Then her chest, her legs, her skull, until finally all that was left was the crown. It shone.

He shuddered. 

Jaime used his good hand to wipe away some of the ash from the cover of the book and turned it over, examining it. He took a deep breath, and let the pages fall open.

They were all burnt. Intact, but charred, no longer white and gilded but dusty and black. He tried desperately to rub the charcoal away but the pages flaked and crumpled beneath his clumsy hand, scattering to the floor. 

He panicked, quickly rifling through pages, trying to gently remove the ash but merely destroying more of the book. Flakes of paper fell around his feet. No, no: he had to read it, had to see what it said, had to _know_...

He fumbled, his golden hand useless against the fine dust, and the book fell from his grip onto the stone floor. As the leather spine collided with the ground, the pages exploded outwards in a cloud.

He stepped back in shock, looked at the dead book, at the silver crown, and suddenly he could hear his own heartbeat ringing horribly in his ears, like the ruined city was full of drums.

Jaime stumbled from the room, kicking away the shell of the book, throwing up huge plumes of dust in his wake. His legs were like ice, like glaciers, refusing to move properly.

He tripped and was thrown head first into the ash. He sputtered as it filled his mouth, mingling with his spit, tasting like iron and rot. And there was the cry again, this time right in front of him, and he scrambled into the ash, scooping it away with his hands as the cry grew louder and more desperate. As he dug, the ash grew thicker and heavier, and when he looked up he saw that the pathways he had been following were now obscured. His heartbeat - the horrible drumming - was getting louder and louder, threatening to deafen him. 

The ocean, still crashing in the distance, was growing dark.

“Jaime!”

He stopped. 

Brienne. She was here, here in this hateful, destroyed place. He struggled to his feet. She must be close - her voice had been clear as a bell, somehow louder than his heart. He tried to call back but his mouth was clogged with foul ash and he could only splutter and choke. He spat out thick, black liquid, which dribbled down his chin.

“Jaime!”

He lurched forwards towards the sound of her voice, willing his legs to work, trying not to fall back onto the black ground. The ash was still building, rising above his ankles, then his knees. He waded through it like water, pushing it aside, feeling it close behind him.

He took a deep breath, bracing himself for another mouthful of ash. But none came. He realised, suddenly, he could breathe - and the air was cold and refreshing, not stagnant and hot. He felt the tingling coolness fill his lungs, but rather than clearing his head it only made the thumping worse, growing desperate, cacophonous. 

He opened his mouth to call out to Brienne. If she could hear him, maybe she could drag him out of the ash, take him away from the city.

And then the sky exploded into whiteness.

He opened his eyes.


End file.
